


ain't that poster love

by FLWhite



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Angst, Beach House, Breaking and Entering, Canon Compliant, Insomnia, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, Missing Scene, More Pining, Painting, Pining, Stream of Consciousness, Wet Dream, past/internalized homophobia, wet makeout, wetness generally, youthful antics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-07 14:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: Short Sander x Robbe missing scenes, canon-compliant, updated depending on the demands of my Real Job. First 2 chapters initially posted on mytumblr.
Relationships: Robbe Ijzermans/Sander Driesen
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	1. tuesday night fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robbe at the beach, a sad and tired boy.

The day had been still, but a wind grew as the fire died in its pit, blowing in from the sea. The girls yawned, shivered, and said their goodnights one by one, Britt taking Sander with her, Noor feeding him a wistful look as she let Zoë draw her away by her hand. Then went Moyo and Aaron, clapping him on the back, one merry pat on each shoulder blade, Moyo still chewing the final s'more, into which Aaron had managed to cram four marshmallows and three-quarters of a bricklike bar of chocolate. “Don’t stay up too late, you lovebirds!’

Jens was the last to leave, credit to him. But not much credit. "You good on drowning the coals before turnin’ in, bro?” he’d said, getting to his feet while rubbing his arms. 

“Sure.” Robbe had continued staring into the endlessly curling waves, picking with thumb and forefinger at the knee of his jeans. 

Maybe Jens had hesitated for just a moment, half a moment. But he’d asked nothing more. “‘Night then.” And then there was just the tiny fingernail of moon, the ocean, and him.

*  
“Fuck,” he says aloud as he taps his phone alight. It is somehow still only two-fifteen. He feels like he’d fallen asleep for six hours instead of one. His neck is cricked from the chair, so he pulls himself from it and plops directly onto the sand. Instantly, its damp chill leaches into him. Grunting, he gropes for another blanket, doubles it over the one he’s already folded over his shoulders, and heaves to his feet, making not for the cabin behind but the dunes ahead, where the tall grasses reply to his sighs with their own.

Noor had still been awake last night when he’d crept onto the top bunk at two, and her hands hand gone around his neck and he’d begun sweating like he’d just sprinted a 5-k, so dazed with fatigue that he thought she knew, that somehow she’d found out, and was about to strangle him for stringing her along. 

But she had just wanted to kiss, and then she’d put her hand over his and tried to put it on her breast where it was warmest right over her heart, letting his thumb skim over her nipple along the way. _We should sleep,_ he’d mumbled. When that didn’t work, when she got his other hand too and started putting it up her shirt, he’d added, feebly, _the others—the guys,_ and thank God, Aaron had given a huge snort and woken himself up right at that moment. And then he’d pretended to immediately fall asleep, holding himself perfectly still until he heard Noor’s breath, coming at first quick and indignant, drift slowly into the tiniest of snores. They should’ve been cute as hell. _Were_ cute as hell, objectively. 

He should’ve been having a great time. This _was_ a great time. Objectively.

He should’ve been enjoying the shit out of this week, before the usual scramble of exams and projects before winter holidays. Objectively.  
*  
The wind tastes crystalline with salt and cold. He sucks a few deep breaths of it as he drops to the sand again, shrouded among his blankets. Apart from the hiss and boom of the water and the soughing grass, it is deeply quiet. He imagines himself buried in the sand, a relic; swallowed by the tide, a wreck. He lets his sore eyes shut again. Another half-hour should do it.

  
*  
There’s someone’s hair under his chin, soft against his lips. It is so dark. The fragment of moon has been overwhelmed by clouds, through which the stars glow only faintly. He blinks, squeezes his eyelids together hard. It’s hard to tell the difference between his eyes open and shut. Yet he still feels sure that the hair is pale. The blankets are rucked beneath him, being pressed with him into the dune. His shirt’s being peeled up but the cold, instead of stinging, feels like a heavy kiss against his flank. A palm cradles his nape, strong, warm as blood. Fingers, creeping across his ribs, creep toward his breastbone, too firmly to tickle. Short and slightly uneven nails skirt the crest of his ears, the line of his jaw: it’s not her hand. It’s not her.

He hears a sound, a little whimpering sound, and realizing that it’s coming from himself makes his skin prickle and his pulse jump. The neck pressed against his cheek smells like tobacco, like peppercorns, like charring bread; he inhales and inhales until his head is light, too frightened to move, in case he scatters all of this—the scent filling his throat, the skin meeting his, the scritch of a sideburn against his collarbone—like a mirage.

The hem of his shirt reaches his nipples, a tide of goosebumps in its wake. He starts clearing his throat, mouthing a name, but there is the barest huff of a laugh and the hand that isn’t her hand closes softly over his mouth and is then replaced by parted lips that aren’t her lips and a wetly roving tongue. His yelp of shock is swallowed whole. 

There’s nothing else to do but to kiss back, so he does. 

*  
At first he thinks he’s at home, in bed—not the bed in the apartment, which he still thinks of as_ the new place_, onto which sunlight streams slantwise from the first moment of dawn, but his old bed, narrow, with the dinosaur stickers still clinging to the headboard, in the narrow house that his father and mother had bought together long ago. The milky gray color around him is exactly like the tint of early morning filtered through the weathered curtains, white stars against once-black folds, that hung over the window at the foot of that bed.

Then the cold bursts the illusion and he shivers upright. A band of as-yet faint light low in the overcast sky silvers the edges of the dunes, the lapping tide, his knuckles on the chilly sand, and the sedges standing tall and still like a dark solid wall. The blankets have fallen open around him, and he’s thrashed the sand so much onto them that it’ll take a serious whacking to get them remotely clean again. 

His phone, jabbed awake, glares accusingly, too bright: five thirty-seven. He’s got time to get back. Not even Amber will be awake for another two hours at least. The crick in his neck is worse, and he must’ve slept funny on his left arm, because it’s all pins and needles. Stiffly, he pulls his hood overhead, then, reaching down to hike up his jeans, flinches: they’re damp through and sticking to him. 

Disgust breaks over him like a whitecap, even as the smell of pepper and smoke lingers between his teeth. He shakes his head, grits his jaw, rolls to his feet, and, dragging the blankets around him, staggers toward the showers.


	2. you're the first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys fleeing, after the pool.
> 
> (Some elements of this may turn out to be canon-divergent... I may update to reflect that down the line.)

Turns out it’s kind of hard to put on your shirt, ride a bike, and laugh so hard your stomach hurts at the same time. Being completely drenched makes it even harder, of course. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he giggle-shouts as he careens wildly, trying to drag the damp cotton down over his belly with one hand while kicking at a fire hydrant to avoid kissing it with the front tire of his bike. Ahead of him, paused, dripping, bathed in a cone of light from a streetlamp, Sander throws back his gleaming white head and roars, a reckless angel. The dapple of distant lights on the dark river stretch behind him like wings. Robbe looks, and looks, and looks, then pivots his eyes away fiercely, realizing that if he let himself stare as much as he wanted to, he’d end up riding himself directly into the river. 

He tries not to let his voice crack as he squelches past at speed: “What are you doing? We gotta keep going!”

“Nah, we can chill now,” Sander chortles, pedaling leisurely. “The dog is lazy and the guard lazier. They never come out further than the gate.”   
“You’ve gone—gone in there before?” He pretends to cough, hoping the sudden sharpness of his voice will go unnoticed.

“Fuck yes. Last year in September I was in there for almost a whole hour.” An agonizing beat. “Oh, but never with anyone else.” Sander’s face, in profile, is briefly as inscrutable as an effigy’s; then he reaches out and puts his right hand over Robbe’s left where it grips the handlebar, hard enough to wobble them both. “Never, Robbe,” he adds, ignoring Robbe’s fuck of protest. “You’re the first."

“Okay—fuck, the cone—” it’s too late; Robbe’s flailing left foot has laid out one of four pylons guarding a new patch of asphalt. He giggles helplessly as they coast past it and down a small incline back toward the tunnel to cross the river, but Sander is still solemn, his fingers damp but hot around Robbe’s. He doesn’t even let go when they dismount and descend and ascend the escalators. 

“The first, Robbe.” Sander says, once they’re beyond the tunnel; there is a compulsion in that voice, and Robbe finds himself (again, he mutters to himself, unkindly) unable to resist. They coast to a halt under another streetlamp. He looks, and he looks, and he looks at the corners of Sander’s lips, which had tasted so strangely sweet through the chlorine, at the sepia shadows cast by Sander’s eyelashes, and at the blade of Sander’s jaw, fuzzed by a faint bit of scruff.

Sander’s fingers are sliding along his, between them, lacing together tightly. Now his hand is being turned carefully over and, slowly and softly where the previous kisses had been hard and frantic, pressed to Sander’s lips. Sander’s eyes meet his, huge and depthless, over their hands, and he stares back, eyes stinging because he can’t so much as blink. 

“Okay,” he finds himself saying again, except he can’t be sure if he’s making any sound over the cacophony of his blood in his ears. “Okay.” And then they’re again pulling themselves together, still straddling their bicycles, moving more languidly but no less hungrily to taste each other. The night chill of his sodden clothes dissolves before the heat of Sander’s mouth, the flick of his tongue, the glide of his skin under Robbe’s unsteady touch.

At last, they part to breathe. Sander’s hands still cup Robbe’s shoulders as gingerly as though embracing a boy of glass, but words burst from him in a warm, slurred flood. “Listen,” he pants, “Listen, Robbe. I’m close by, six minutes from here, no, less, and my parents are away for the week in France, and my sister doesn’t care—”

The mention of other people and places is a shock like leaping again into the frigid pool: he grits his teeth, tries to smile, recollecting that there’s a world beyond this one, this soft endless evening in which there is only the taste and the scent of Sander, the feel of Sander close and hot and trembling like he’s about to break apart. “Fuck, I can’t, I have two quizzes tomorrow,” he mumbles, but all he can think of are two names he can’t bring himself to say aloud. 

“Bah, fuck ‘em.” Sander laughs low in his throat, and in one motion nudges his kickstand into place and flings his leg over the top bar of his bicycle to press his entire front against Robbe, never letting go of Robbe’s shoulders. “Come on, Robbe. Come _on_.” 

Robbe flinches away, groaning with the effort; if he hears his own name whispered like that one more time, if he feels Sander insistent against him like that one more time, he won’t be able to resist. So he keeps his body turned away, braced against the bicycle, grinding his mind over the sharp stones of their names, imagining their faces twisting into masks of shock, disgust, hatred: brittle Britt, unrelenting Noor. 

“I can’t, no, I can’t.” He makes a terrible mistake: he falters for a moment in his resolve to break free, and his eyes are pulled upward to Sander’s immediately, as though magnetized. His mouth clacks shut on its own as Sander’s fingers skim, tapping, over the hairs of his nape. The expression on Sander’s face is devastating: the eyes half-shut and half-smiling, the mouth crinkled lushly in resignation, the cheeks pinked, the brows folded but without resentment. _All right_, they all murmur, _it’s all right. We know there’s more to come. _

“Well, at least let me see you home, then.” His hand is finally released, but not without a lingering drag of Sander’s palm along his arm, wrist to elbow, leaving a burning trail through the canvas sleeve of his jacket. “_Allez_. Lead the way.”


	3. all he can do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the early hours of Zaterdag, November 23, Sander paints.

He switches the cap out one more time, rummaging in his pack for the backup Gold Dot, praying that it won't get clogged too. If he'd planned things better, if he'd been more thorough shaking up the last can, he wouldn't have had to. But it's almost six a.m. and his hands are almost completely numb with cold and the gloves he'd grabbed from the bathroom cabinet tiptoeing out of the apartment are a little too tight and he's slept three hours, maybe four, since lunch on Thursday and it's all he can do. This is all he can do.

He bends to take another swig of his paper cup of long-cold black coffee, wedged among the empty cans on the top of the stepladder. The bitter chill of it practically stings his tongue, but he can't fuck up now. Just these strands of white, and then a little more highlighting on the shattering pieces of the wall, and that'll be all. For some reason he kind of wants to cry.

_What if,_ his cruelest voice murmurs. _What if you remembered the wrong place?_

_What if he's forgotten about you already?_

He clenches his jaw against it, but the voice persists_. _

_Jens, good-looking guy (not a weirdo). He knows Jens (and Jens knows him). He trusts Jens (can't blame him). Maybe they grew up sharing their clothes. Sharing their food. Sharing a bed, even. Wouldn't be strange. _

"Fuck you," he says aloud, switching off his headlamp and letting his chin fall toward his chest. His brain feels heavy; it feels full of creeping things. Thoughts. Words. Most of all, _him_.

The sound of him saying _Sander, Sander_, all throaty from being kissed. The smell of the warm place between the corner of his jaw and his neck, where his blood beats fast. The velvet of his earlobe. The almost unbearable delicacy at the place where his collarbones come together. The slide of his tongue, the slight paperiness of his upper lip, the way he sighs when a hand is put on his nape.

_Disgusting_, says another voice. It might be his mother now, or the biology teacher from Year 5. He can't tell. _Unnatural. A dead end. A disease of the brain. _Another glug of the coffee, to exorcise them, and—he hopes, he wills—the twinge of his arousal, too.

He must finish. He must finish soon. It'll be starting to get pretty light in at most an hour. He can't hide the ladder in that lot for a third night, if he doesn't want it stolen; he can't ride out again with both his bags and the lantern and headlamp and batteries and all this shit. He can barely imagine hauling it all back tonight, or today, as it is. He's out of hiding spots.

He finishes the coffee to the last black pebbly drop, lets the cup tumble to the concrete below. Later. He'll pick everything up later.

For now, he lifts his hand, and he paints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short for many reasons: I have (my real) work to do and I can't afford to be sucked into the gullet of another SKAM fanfic Charybdis; also, we know next to nothing about Sandypants. Yet!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, do also check out my darling [@ryuujitsu (hallo-catfish)'s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu) SKAMFr and WTFock stories!


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